<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Once In A Lifetime by DobbyRocksSocks</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29861445">Once In A Lifetime</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DobbyRocksSocks/pseuds/DobbyRocksSocks'>DobbyRocksSocks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But also too stubborn for his own good, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death (not Sherlock or John), Hospital Scenes, John is a BAMF, M/M, Mary? We don't know her, Mostly platonic love but still very much life partners, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock and John belong with each other, Sherlock is sorry, TW: Branding, TW: Past Suicidal thoughts, obviously, sherlock comes home, they get their shit together</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:47:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29861445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DobbyRocksSocks/pseuds/DobbyRocksSocks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John believes in Sherlock, even two years after his death. When he's kidnapped by someone seeking revenge, will he still believe in Sherlock when the ordeal is over? And when Sherlock comes back from the dead, will John forgive him?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Once In A Lifetime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” a man said from the shadows. John frowned, looking over at him. He could only imagine that it was someone he’d pissed off on a case back before Sherlock— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nope, not going there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You won’t recognise me,” the man told him, and there was an amused tilt to his tone as he stepped closer, better into the light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was correct, of course, John didn’t think he’d ever seen the man before, but that didn’t really mean much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“None of this is really about you, Dr Watson. No, of course not. It never has been, has it? It’s always been about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” John growled out. “Pitched himself off the roof of Bart’s two years ago. So whatever this is about… I don’t think he really cares, do you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sweet that you believe that,” the man said, tilting his head slightly, curiously. “And you do believe it, don’t you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John blinked. “I saw him do it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm. And we both know that he wasn’t a master manipulator, right?” the man mocked. “We both know that Sherlock Holmes couldn’t do the </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shook his head at the implications of the man’s words. Sherlock was gone, John had seen it himself. There was no… no way. No way he was alive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re just trying to mess with my head,” he growled, and it gained him a laugh from the man who’d strode behind him now, checking the bonds holding him in place on the uncomfortable steel chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re even less important to Holmes than you ever believed, John. Think about that, won’t you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He left. John listened to the swift, sure footsteps on the concrete ground until he could hear anything anymore and he sighed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John chewed on the inside of his mouth, trying to force himself to focus. No matter what the man had said, whatever ridiculousness he’d implied, nobody was coming to rescue John. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had to do it himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two days passed, and John was beginning to wonder if he was just going to be left to die of dehydration in the concrete basement of whatever building he was being held in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d dozed off a few times, always waking when his chin hit his chest, but aside from that, he hadn’t slept, hadn’t had any food or water. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There had just been nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only reason he was even aware of how much time had passed was the small window towards the ceiling of the basement that let in a small amount of light when it was daytime. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Footsteps echoed on the ground, and John stared at the door, waiting for whoever was coming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this point, a large part of him was just waiting for death; he only hoped that whoever was holding him had decided he’d suffered enough and didn’t draw it out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man he’d spoken too before entered the basement, and without any pause, not even a sly dig, he was cutting the rope bonding John to the chair. John was still tied up, however, and he slid to the side, off the chair and onto the hard floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man snorted, leaning down to grip the rope around John’s ankle and dragged him across the floor. John tried to fight him, but it didn’t seem to faze the man in the slightest and John was sure he just looked like a fish out of water, flopping around uselessly on the floor as he tried to dislodge himself from the man’s grip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was pulled into another room, this one with a steel table in the middle, and a few tables. A fire burned close to the table, and John felt his stomach contract in fear. It looked like some kind of old school torture lab. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was hefted up onto the table, the ropes securing his wrists and ankles hooked into holders waiting for them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now to really begin the fun, hmm?” the man said. He opened a fresh bottle of water and drank from it deeply before he put it to John’s lips. John wanted to refuse it but found he couldn’t and he drank for as long as the man let him, until the bottle was empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t want you to pass out too soon, would we?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John thought about spitting at the man, but didn’t. He wasn’t Sherlock; there was no point enraging this man. Not yet. Not until John had more of an idea of what in the hell was going on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except then the man made his intentions clear. He lifted what looked like a poker up, though it was thinner, and placed it onto the fire, heating it in the flames. John felt nauseous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you doing this?” he asked, desperate for an answer, to know why this was happening to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do any of us do anything?” the man asked. “Love, revenge, rage… it’s always emotional, isn’t it, Dr Watson. Except, of course, when it’s not. When it’s intellectual. It could be anything.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” John asked again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Holmes took away the one person that made life bearable for me,” the man said softly, and there was a sudden flash of an ugly rage on the man’s face that scared John more than anything he’d seen so far. “I’m just returning the favour. But… well. I’d like to play a little first. A bullet would have been cleaner, and perhaps even more appropriate. Symmetrical. Not quite as satisfying though.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to do this,” John tried, knowing it was useless but suddenly unwilling to just give up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to,” the man agreed with a small smile. His eyes gleamed. “But I’d very much </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>to.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He picked up the metal poker, now glowing slightly, with a gloved hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John fought against the bonds holding him, but they were too tight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, now, Dr Watson, none of that,” his captur said, almost comfortingly. A large hand clamped down on John's ribs, holding him even better in place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then the burn started again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was being branded, he knew, but all John knew was fire; hot and mind blowingly painful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You lasted longer than I expected.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shifted, his mind hazy, and then stopped when it sent agonising pain down his sides.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought it might take a few sessions,” the man added. “But we got it done in one. Colour me impressed, Doctor.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” John groaned, making the man chuckle softly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you’d like it,” the man offered. “Do you want to see it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John really didn’t, but the sensible part of him knew he should, to try and assess the damage if nothing else. He nodded silently, and the man stepped up, holding a mirror where John could see the reflection of his hip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I believe in Sherlock Holmes </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even with the inflamed skin around the burns, the words could be read clearly, stark against his pale skin. John winced, regretting it immediately when it sent more pain jolting through him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you’d be happier, Doctor Watson.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John only glared, looking away from the mirror. He had to get away from this maniac.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A punch to his stomach caught him off guard, and he curled in as much as the ropes allowed, crying out in pain. Blow after blow landed, a sudden torrent of abuse on his body as the man took his anger out on John. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re nothing,” the man suddenly hissed in his ear. “And you’re going to die here. Maybe I’ll even leave you recognisable, for when that bastard shows up to try and save your pathetic hide.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pain clouded John’s brain and he wondered who the man was talking about. Mycroft, perhaps? He was the only one left that might come for John, if he even knew that John had been taken. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then… why would he care anyway? They’d had no contact since Sherlock’s death, or rather, since the day after the funeral when John had told him unceremoniously to fuck off and stay the hell away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man stomped from the room, and John stayed perfectly still, the agonising pain paralysing him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t know how long he’d slept when the man returned. He shared another bottle of water with John before he threw the empty container into the corner.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John waited to see what punishment was going to be delivered on him this time; if this was when it was finally going to end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ropes were unhooked, and John was untied, turned onto his back on the steel table. The man left him there as he pottered around, and John wondered what the game was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was he supposed to try and escape? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Did the man think he was too injured to do anything? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Knowing that he was going to have to take the chance despite the lack of odds in his favour, John waited until the man was bent over with his back to John before he forced himself off the table, rolling off into a crouch.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He came from behind, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck and twisted, putting all of his force into. The man was still for a moment, and John thought he had him, but then the man fought back and it suddenly wasn’t as easy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was smaller, but he’d never been a weak man and despite his injuries, the sudden surge of adrenaline that surged through him allowed him to momentarily forget the pain that had wrecked his body to tighten his grip and twist until he felt the bone beneath give way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man in his arms went slack and John dropped him to the floor, cautiously following to check for a pulse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he found none, John sagged against the table, relief coursing through him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, he had no idea if there were anymore attackers in the building, and he already knew that he didn’t have the strength to fight anymore, but if they were alone, if it was just the two of them there, then maybe John wouldn’t be dying today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John forced himself to his feet just as the door clattered open. Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, his ever present umbrella in his hand and what John assumed to be his staff behind him, guns in hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John? John, are you alright?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John stared at him for a long moment and then nodded to the floor. “That’s the man who’s had me here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sebastian Moran,” Mycroft said, almost soft enough to be talking to himself. He looked back at John. “He was Moriarty’s second in command.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That made sense, John thought, nodding absently.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took a few steps towards the door, each one more painful than the last. Mycroft looked mildly alarmed.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John, perhaps you should sit down. We have a medical team with us, they’ll take care of you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shook his head, pushing past Mycroft into the corridor. He knew he was being stupid, but he didn’t want Mycroft’s help to get out. Not when he’d done the heavy lifting on his own already. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He forced himself on, aware of the presence of the elder Holmes behind him. When he made it to the stairs, John rubbed a hand over his face. This was going to fucking suck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To refuse an ambulance would be ridiculous, John knew, but the presence of Mycroft always brought out his more stubborn side. Still, as the paramedics hurried forwards, he allowed them to help him into the back of the ambulance, perching himself on the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft stood outside the doors, and John glared at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you still here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John, I’m merely concerned about your wellbeing,” Mycroft replied. He sounded sincere; from anyone else, John would have believed it without doubt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shook his head and looked at the paramedics. “I don’t want him here. Can we just go to the hospital, or should I just try and get to the main road and flag a cab?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The paramedics looked between John and Mycroft. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going to take you to a private—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” John snapped, shaking his head. “A&amp;E. I want a normal hospital. I don’t need anything from you, Mycroft.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft sighed, but nodded at the paramedics. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I only want the best for you, John.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay away from me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doors swung closed, and John got up from the bed and sat down in one of the seats, fastening the seat belt around him. The beating had left him feeling like a walking bruise, and every movement hurt, but when the paramedic left in the back with him suggested he get on the bed, John refused. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was tense, and he didn’t trust them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He denied all tests and by the time the ambulance pulled to a stop, he rather thought the paramedics were glad to be shut of him. He stepped out unassisted and walked into the main entrance of the A&amp;E, leaving them behind as he walked to the help desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need help,” he murmured to the nurse on the desk. “My name is Dr John Watson, and I don’t want any visitors.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t hear anymore as he crumpled to the floor, the last vestiges of stubbornness or adrenaline leaving him, and he knew no more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John knew he was in a hospital bed before he opened his eyes. The oddly comforting beeping of the machines attached to his arm, the oddly specific feeling of the mattress beneath him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opened his eyes to find himself in a white room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was another thing about hospitals; everything was always </span>
  <em>
    <span>white. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The walls, the doors, the windows, the bedding, even the bandages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were drips beside him, slowly dripping into the tube that had been attached to his arm, and the heart monitor beeped on, steady and slow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only… he wasn’t alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>John</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Curled in the chair beside him was a figure that </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>shouldn’t have been able to be there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock was thinner, his hair longer, a few new lines around his eyes and mouth, but he was undeniably Sherlock. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John glanced back at the IV bags, wondering what medication they’d put him on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not hallucinating.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s exactly what a hallucination would say,” John replied, wincing at his voice, throaty and rough and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He didn’t sound like himself. “I told them no visitors.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock huffed. “When has that ever stopped me before?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So he was telling the truth,” John surmised after a moment. “Not quite as dead as thought.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded, biting his bottom lip. “Hmm. Not quite.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nodded, and then closed his eyes. He wasn’t ready to deal with this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were voices in John’s room when he woke up next, and he listened to them as he drifted back to consciousness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—believe you, do you have any idea—” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—I do, do you not think it was hard for—”  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“—going to be a mess, Sherlock! Look at—” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> “—not stupid, Lestrade! I don’t—” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John opened his eyes and they stopped talking immediately. If John couldn’t hear them, he’d think that they froze so still, they’d stopped breathing too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you feeling, John?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John blinked at Greg for a moment. “Uh. Like I got beat up?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg snorted. “Sounds about right, mate. Hang on a minute, I’ll call the nurse in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t like he could go anywhere. He nodded anyway, closing his eyes for a moment. A gentle touch to the back of his hand made him flinch and he hissed in pain, opening his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him, his expression pained. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John stared at him for a long moment, cataloging again the differences in this Sherlock and the one John remembered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John blinked. It wasn’t often those words came out of Sherlock’s mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What for?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised, and John felt a small amount of amusement that even after all this time, he could still surprise the genius. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the return of Lestrade and the nurse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She checked him over with a few pertinent questions, and cleared him to have ice chips, at least until the doctor could come around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When can I go home?” John asked, when she was done. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going to keep you for a few days yet, Dr Watson,” she said, patting his hand gently. “That burn on your hip alone is enough to have us worried. We need to keep an eye on it for infection.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John sighed but nodded. He’d known that really; didn’t mean he had to like it, but he was a doctor after all, and he understood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She left them alone, and an awkward silence fell on the three of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll need a statement at some point, John,” Lestrade said quietly. “If you want to wait until you’re at home, that’s fine. Given the end result of the case, it’s not particularly urgent.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John snorted. “I don’t know what to tell you, Greg. I was kidnapped, he beat me up, I snapped his neck when he released the ropes. I’m sure between the evidence at the scene and the medical records, you can figure the rest out for yourself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There won’t be any charges,” Greg added. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock scoffed. “I should hope not. Really Lestrade, go and bug Mycroft about it if you want a statement. I don’t know why he hasn’t just made the whole thing disappear already, we all know he’s going too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lestrade sighed. “I’ll nip back in tomorrow to see you, John, alright?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nodded silently, and he watched as Greg slipped from the room once more, leaving them yet again in an awkward silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John just wanted to go back to sleep, but Sherlock made an aborted sound, almost a whimper, if John was being honest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Say whatever you need to say,” John murmured. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You asked me what I was sorry for,” Sherlock pointed out quietly. “I’m… I’m not sure what I’m sorry for. I’m sorry that Moran came for you; I was doing everything I could to ensure that that didn’t happen and I failed and… for that, I’m deeply sorry, John.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nodded. “And the jump?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock grimaced. “I…I’m sorry you saw it,” he hedged. “But I’m not sorry I did it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What now?” John asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you going back to being dead?” John elaborated with a heavy sigh. He was sure that were the IV not pumping the good drugs into him, he’d be incandescent with rage, but all he really felt was tired. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? No! No, of course not! John… I did it to save your life. Moriarty, he had snipers. Three snipers, three lives or mine. He only… he only really needed one, of course, but insurance, I suppose.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That explains the jump,” John agreed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After… you were still in danger. I set to taking his network apart. That’s where I’ve been. I… I missed you, John, but I couldn’t bring you with me. Not this time. It was too… I got us into the mess, I had to get us out of it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Moran?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was the last one,” Sherlock sighed. “He figured out what I was doing and gave me the slip when he realised he was the last one. I… I didn’t think he’d come for you, John. I thought he was hiding and when I realised, well. It was too late.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nodded again. “Okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock made a noise of protest. “You… you’re not… John are you angry with me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure I will be,” John said. “Not right now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. I… why?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re here,” John said. “It’s what I’ve wanted for two years, Sherlock. I’m not going to complain about getting the miracle I asked for.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock was quiet for a minute and then he reached out and wrapped his hands around John’s, clutching it almost desperately. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… John, I… I’ll be here. When you wake up. I’ll be here, John.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looked at the stairs and sighed. Why hadn’t he remembered the stairs? Sherlock hovered behind him, waiting with an uncertain patience for John to begin the climb. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a deep breath, John clutched the banister and slowly made his way up the stairs. By the time he’d made it to the landing, his body was screaming at him to stop, to sit down and not move ever again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d been planning to go straight to bed, but the thought of another flight of stairs was almost enough to make his legs just give up beneath him, so he made his way into the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Sherlock’s prolonged absence, John hadn’t changed much in the time he’d lived there alone. When Sherlock was first gone, John had planned to move out, knowing he couldn’t afford the flat alone, but Mrs Hudson had been adamant that he stayed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That Mycroft had contacted her on behalf of Sherlock’s estate. The rent had continued to be paid, and John had stayed because leaving would have meant packing Sherlock up into boxes and he’d never been able to bring himself to do it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only real difference was the lack of body parts in the fridge, or the excess of test tubes on the kitchen table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even Billy the Skull was still on the mantelpiece, there to welcome John home from work every day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John collapsed into his chair with a sigh of relief, his trembling legs glad for the reprieve. He struggled out of his jacket, and was content to leave it in his lap. Sherlock plucked it from his grip, hanging it up with his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tea?” Sherlock asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John was about to agree, when Mrs Hudson appeared, a tray in her arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yoo hoo,” she said, wandering into the flat. She put the tray down on the table and smiled at John. “It’s good to have you home, dearie. I was worried about you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be good as new before you know it,” John replied softly, squeezing her hand when she patted his arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Honestly, Mrs Hudson had been one of the few bright points in John’s life over the last two years, and he’d be lost without her now, he knew. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d been the primary reason that he hadn’t eaten his gun for the first few months; he hadn’t wanted to make her see that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She deserved better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll leave you two to catch up then, shall I?” she offered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shook his head. “Stay and have tea with us,” he requested. “Sherlock and I have time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock glanced at him and then smiled, nodding his head. “All the time in the world.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John got out of the shower and dried himself off. The aches and bruises were almost gone now, and he felt much better for it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only thing really still bothering him was the burn. He’d been careful not to look at it too closely while putting the cream on that the hospital had given him, but now, he dropped the towel and stood in front of the mirror. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It could be a hastily done tattoo, if it weren’t for the colouring and the way the skin still pulled around his hip whenever he moved wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was still red, bright red in fact, though the skin around it had settled some since he’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>gifted </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I believe in Sherlock Holmes </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t a lie of course, but to see the words so stark on his skin was still unsettling. He didn’t know if Sherlock knew about it. His chart had said ‘burn’ but hadn’t contained the specifics, and John hadn’t let Sherlock stay when they changed the dressings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was possible Mycroft told him of course, John was sure that he’d seen it when they’d still been in the basement. Unlikely though it was, it was possible Mycroft had held his tongue about that particular injury. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John thought that if Sherlock was aware of it, his curiosity would have gotten the better of him by now; he’d have asked to see it.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John startled. “Hmm?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” he replied. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no reply, and John heard Sherlock’s soft footsteps moving back down the corridor.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lip quirked slightly as he turned away from the mirror and began dressing himself. That had been something new to get used to since he’d been home from the hospital; if he was out of sight for too long, Sherlock would come looking for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There had been a near full breakdown only a few days before when John had gone downstairs to have tea with Mrs Hudson while Sherlock had been sleeping. When the genius had woken up to find John gone, he’d been almost inconsolable until he found him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was… odd. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sweet, in a way, but still. Odd. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before, John could have been gone for hours at a time and Sherlock wouldn’t have even realised he’d been out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then again, it had been quickly apparent that John hadn’t been the only one affected by the absence of the other. While he’d had a few cruel thoughts about Sherlock swanning around the world being a genius, it hadn’t taken him long to realise that Sherlock had in fact missed John’s presence quite deeply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been a gratifying discovery, even if John was slightly uncomfortable with his own thoughts that he was glad it hadn’t been easy for Sherlock to leave John behind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dressed in soft pyjamas, the waistband of the bottoms lower than he’d usually wear them so that they weren’t digging into the burn, John left the bathroom. With a brief stop at the laundry basket, he returned to the living room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock was pottering around in the kitchen, so John sat down on the sofa, propping himself up with the cushions in reaching distance, and grabbed the remote. He wasn’t really in the mood for doing much of anything, so he flicked through the channels until he found an old sci-fi movie, and dropped the remote back onto the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock appeared a few minutes later with tea for them both and rather than sitting in his chair, he joined John on the sofa. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ta,” John murmured, taking the offered tea with a small smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought we could order Thai later,” Sherlock murmured. “Or I can pick up from Angelo, if you want Italian?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thai’s fine,” John replied, glancing at the window, through which he could see rain lashing down, the sky a grim grey. “No sense going out in that and ruining your curls.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock chuckled and leant into John’s side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John lifted his arm, and Sherlock sank even closer. A mistimed exhale had John wincing, and Sherlock sat back up, his face paling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, I didn’t… sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” John assured him softly. “Burns just take a while to heal, that’s all.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I see it?” Sherlock asked after a minute. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John bit his lip. “Why?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to see what he did to you,” Sherlock said softly. “I want to see what new scars you have in my name.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John winced at the apt description. Sherlock bit his lip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault,” John said. “If you’re going to look at it and feel guilty, then I’m not going to show it to you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Listen to me; this wasn’t your fault. This was the fault of the bloody nutter that did it and nobody else, you hear me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded slowly. “Okay. I. Okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shifted on the sofa, and tugged his t-shirt up. Sherlock gasped, his face paling as he stared at the words branded into John’s hip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He… he…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock shot up off the sofa and ran for the bathroom. John followed at a more sedate pace, wincing at the sounds of retching. When he reached Sherlock, he stroked his back, holding his hair off his face as Sherlock emptied the contents of his stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” John murmured. “We’re okay, Sherlock.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock, when he was sure he was done, sat back on his heels, leaning against John’s legs. “Sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” John replied. “We’re fine. It’s… it’s all fine.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. “Can… can we just go and sit on the sofa and watch a stupid movie, John. I’m just… so tired.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They rearranged themselves on the sofa, this time with Sherlock sitting in the corner, and John leaning into his side, Sherlock’s arm wrapped loosely around him, holding him close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John closed his eyes. They’d be okay, he thought as he drifted off. Together they’d be fine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John turned over, opening his eyes. It was still dark in his bedroom, and it took him a moment to realise why he was awake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock was sitting at the bottom of his bed, almost ethereal in the moonlight shining through the gap in the curtains. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock? You okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded, and then shook his head. “Nightmare. I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John sighed. “Come here, you daft sod.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flipped the quilt back on the empty side of the bed, and Sherlock practically scrambled to climb in, all of his usual elegance abandoning him in his eagerness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John chuckled, turning on his side to face Sherlock. They lay face to face, their hands linked by their pinkies between them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” John replied. “Get some sleep, genius. Maybe Lestrade will have a case for you tomorrow.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The cases, if there are any, will be for us. I told you, John. I can’t do it without you again. I won’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John unhooked their pinkies to squeeze Sherlock’s hand. “Then maybe Lestrade will have a case for us, hmm?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe. Night John.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Night Sherlock.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There wasn’t a case the next day, or the day after that, but slowly, life returned to normal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s hip stopped hurting so much, and there were times in the day he forgot about the brand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lestrade fetched them a few files that Sherlock solved without ever getting off the sofa, and then Mycroft gave him a case with some legwork, and then there was a murder and… </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John settled back into their normal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only, it wasn’t what he remembered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock waited for him now. He reached for John all the time, was far clingier than he’d ever been. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he found that he liked it. They’d always been close, but this was different. More. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They </span>
  <em>
    <span>cuddled </span>
  </em>
  <span>now, and Sherlock spent more nights in John’s bed than his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock had always had a talent for knowing what John needed, and John wasn’t sure if this was that, or if it was something both of them needed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re thinking.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looked up to see Sherlock watching him fondly from his place at the kitchen table. John smiled and finished making their tea. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just thinking about the differences between when we met and now,” John admitted. “I… I guess I never thought that two people could be so… entwined, the way we are, you know? It’s like…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“More than any other relationship,” Sherlock filled in for him softly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nodded. “I guess losing you and getting you back really does feel like a miracle. I don’t want to waste that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reached out and ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls, smiling again when Sherlock leant into the touch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want anyone else, ever, John,” Sherlock said. “You’re it for me. You know that, right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nodded, bending slightly to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “I know. You’re it for me too. No more arsing about.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock’s smile was radiant, and John grinned down at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John didn’t know what would happen in the future, but one thing he did know was that miracles didn’t happen twice in a lifetime, and he was going to hold onto his with both hands. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>